by JR Carroll
Dale Markleigh. Old mate turned bitter enemy. No worse nemesis than that.
Tim began a mental inventory of possible weapons in the house. Unfortunately there was no gun on the premises. Tim had a Glock, for which he had a permit, back in Red Hill, but he’d never considered it necessary to keep a firearm here in the bush. Christ, must be about the only household in the district without one.
There were sharp knives aplenty, a whole block of them on the kitchen bench. What else? Some antique fire irons, a fire extinguisher, a metal vase, lengths of timber in the storeroom … There were tools, but they were outside, locked in the shed.
His options didn’t look bright.
A horrifying realisation suddenly hit Tim. He’d known it from the start, when the first shots were fired, but shrank from confronting it. These men had come a long way to carry out their mission. If they were here to kill Tim they’d have to kill Amy too. You don’t go to this trouble, travel this far, to commit a murder and then leave someone alive to tell the story. She’d have to go. They were still pressed against the dining room wall. He took her by the wrist.
‘Amy, listen,’ he whispered, ‘we have to move from here. I want you to go upstairs.’
‘What does that achieve exactly?’ she said.
‘Come on. This is no good here. We’re exposed.’
But Amy was resisting him. ‘You’re hardly in a position to give orders,’ she said.
‘Christ, I’m not giving orders. It’s just not safe down here!’
‘So where is it safe, exactly?’ she said.
‘Amy, these men are trying to get in! They want to kill us! Do you understand?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But … maybe they just want to rob us.’
He stared at her. And maybe they want to rape you, too, before they shoot you. Her blue eyes glittered with anger, uncertainty, all manner of conflicting emotions. In the face of it, disbelief seemed to paralyse Tim for a long moment.
‘They know my name,’ he said quietly, calmly. ‘The guy said he had a package for me. This is not some random home invasion, Amy. They followed us here. Their purpose is clear.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
Tears spilled from her eyes. At that moment Tim understood. Amy didn’t need to have the truth spelled out for her. She knew the gravity of their situation as well as he did.
‘I want you to go upstairs,’ he said. ‘Will you do that?’
She shook her head.
‘Go upstairs, shut the door, push the bed against it. I’ll stay here and—’
‘And do what?’ she said. ‘Take on some gun-wielding invaders? With what, exactly?’
‘Sweetheart, please. This is not the time for an argument. Go up—’
‘I don’t want to go upstairs!’ she said. ‘If I do that I’ve got nowhere to go. I’m trapped!’
She had a point. But at least she’d be out of harm’s way for the time being. Once these animals got inside, nowhere would be safe …
He opened his mouth to say something to that effect when the kitchen windows exploded in ear-shattering blasts. Bits of glass and timber splinters flew everywhere, showering the opposite wall.
Amy let out a scream.
The butt of a shotgun was thrust through the shattered windows, clearing away the jagged glass. Then a head appeared between two of the bars—a wild-eyed man, late-thirties, long dark hair, bits of glass in it.
‘Hello?’ he called out. ‘Anyone home?’ Laughter from outside.
The American.
Tim raced into the kitchen, grabbed a dining chair and swung it at the man’s madly grinning face. The American gave a yell, cursed profusely, and disappeared from view.
‘Hey! No playing dirty!’ a voice, not the American’s, called from outside.
‘Gonna get you now, motherfucker!’ the American shouted. ‘Busted me fuckin’ nose!’
Tim stood by the vacant space where the windows had been, chair in hand, waiting. No one appeared. The space definitely wasn’t big enough for anyone to climb through, even if they were game enough to try. Aside from which, there was nowhere to get a proper purchase.
Come on, you bastards, come and get some more.
But they’d made inroads. Even as he stood poised, ready to smash whoever shoved his face through the hole next, Tim knew it was just the start, that in the end he wouldn’t be able to stop them.
He was pumped. He could feel the throb of veins in his neck, the heavy beats of his heart. He glanced at Amy. She squatted on the floor, deathly white, hands clenched.
On the wall opposite the windows Tim saw scores of shotgun pellets embedded in the plaster.
Christ, they really mean business. And they’re in no hurry. Why would they be? They’ve got all night.
*
Outside, Stav was using a bandanna to stem the flow of blood from his nose. He was both hurting and angry that the man should dare to hit back—but equally mad at himself for letting it happen.
‘I told you,’ Cornstalk said. ‘He used to be a hard-arse fuckin’ cop. Just ’cause he’s a fuckin’ lawyer now don’t mean he’s no soft-cock.’
‘He’ll get his,’ Stav said. The blood would not stop pouring from his broken nose.
‘He will indeed,’ Cornstalk said. He began walking back to the car.
‘What are you doin’?’ Christo said.
‘Goin’ for reinforcements,’ Cornstalk said.
In a minute he was back with a litre bottle of his old pal, Jim Beam. He cracked the seal and took a decent swig.
‘Round one, scores even,’ he said. He wiped bourbon from his chin.
‘We’ll get the bastard soon enough,’ Christo said, putting out his hand for the bottle.
‘I tell you, he’s no soft-cock,’ Cornstalk repeated. ‘Man who underestimates his enemy is gonna lose the fight—and the whole damn war.’
15
Stefan had sometimes noticed rough-looking customers on motorcycles riding around the streets of Hochelaga-Maisonneuve. They often wore shades and scruffy beards and black helmets that looked like German army helmets from World War II. Some of these bikers had the letters ‘SS’ on the backs of their jackets.
Stefan had seen enough war movies to understand that the SS were Nazis who specialised in murdering and torturing prisoners.
Uncle Luc had warned him to watch out for bikers and other dangerous types around the place. They were violent gangs, like the Hells Angels, they had gunfights with rival gang members, and you could be caught in the crossfire. They sold drugs on the streets and bashed and killed people if they owed them money or crossed them in some way. Even the police were scared of them, Luc said.
One day during that winter of ’82, Stefan was walking past a bar. It was a dirty-looking Irish bar, Lonergan’s Pub, and outside there were maybe twenty motorcycles lined up on the sidewalk. They were all black and shiny, magnificent machines with high chrome handlebars, some of them decorated with Canadian flags.
Stefan stopped to admire the bikes.
He ran his hand along one of the sleek bodies. It had flames painted on its fuel tank. He wondered how anyone could possibly control such a ferocious monster of a machine.
‘What are you after, kid?’ he heard a voice say.
Turning around he was confronted by a huge biker with a red beard and large, dark sunglasses, a man mountain. He had a bottle of Molson beer in his hand. Stefan noticed that the biker had tattoos on his hands and on the side of his neck. There were clusters of gold rings in his ears. He glared down at Stefan.
‘Nothing,’ Stefan said. He felt a little scared, but didn’t believe the biker would do anything to hurt a harmless kid.
‘Like my hog, huh?’ the biker said. He took a swig of the Molson.
‘Yes, sir,’ Stefan said.
‘How’s about we go for a spin?’ the biker said. ‘You up for that, my man?’
Stefan was taken aback. He didn’t want to offend the biker, but he was nervous about going
for a ride with this scary-looking guy. What if he kidnapped him, took him somewhere and tortured him to death?
‘OK, I guess,’ he said.
‘You guess? You want to or not?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Stefan said with a lot more enthusiasm.
‘Well, let’s do it then!’ the biker said. He handed his beer to another biker, gave Stefan a helmet and showed him how to put it on. Then the big man straddled his bike and told Stefan to climb on behind him. He fired up his hog in an explosive, ear-splitting roar. A crowd of his buddies stood watching, all slugging beers.
‘Hold on tight, now!’ he shouted over his shoulder, and eased onto the road.
The biker was so huge Stefan couldn’t fit his arms around his waist. He clutched onto the sides of his leather jacket, staring at the SS. On either side were lightning bolts, and under it the words FILTHY FEW.
The bike soon picked up speed. They were off and away, to where, Stefan didn’t know or care. It felt mighty good riding on the back of a hog with this cowboy.
Stefan held tight as the biker careered through the familiar streets, veering left and right, leaning over dangerously into the turns, weaving between cars, shifting gears continuously, finally ending up on a straight stretch of road. There he opened her up, lifting the front wheel, the mighty engine vibrating like a mad thing between Stefan’s legs as the scenery shot by in a blur. Stefan wasn’t scared, not one bit: he felt the biker’s skill and confidence; it was transmitted through his leather jacket as surely and directly as electricity through a hot wire.
Stefan found himself smiling as the wind rushed into his face. Since they’d started their journey the biker had not said one word. They were travelling at speed, how fast Stefan couldn’t tell except for the high-pitched engine noise and the sudden whoosh of air between the hog and the cars going by in the opposite direction.
Sometime later, maybe less than half an hour, they were back outside Lonergan’s. The biker dismounted first, removing his helmet, then he helped Stefan from the rear seat. Stefan’s legs were still trembling from the constant vibrations, and for a moment he was unsteady on his feet.
‘There you go, my man,’ the biker said. ‘Wasn’t too scary for you, was it?’
‘No, sir—it was just great. Thanks!’ He was happier than he’d been in a while; a grin was stretched clear across his face.
‘Now I’m gonna tell you something,’ the biker said. ‘Everyone thinks bikers are bad news, but they ain’t, not all of them. When we do bad, people remember. But when we do good, nobody notices.’
Stefan nodded agreement.
‘What’s your name, son?’ the biker said as Stefan gave him back the helmet.
‘Stefan, sir,’ he said.
‘Ain’t no need to go calling me sir,’ the biker said. ‘I ain’t exactly a member of the royal family.’ For the first time since they’d crossed paths, the biker smiled. It changed his whole face.
‘How old are you, Stefan?’ he asked, pushing his shades onto his head.
‘I’m twelve, sir—I mean, I’m twelve. Thirteen next month.’
‘Think you’d like to own a bike like mine one day?’
The thought had not yet occurred to Stefan, but now he entertained it seriously. ‘You bet,’ he said.
The giant biker grinned down at him. Then he extended his massive hand, and they shook. Stefan turned and went on his way. Before he’d gone far he heard the biker’s voice call out.
‘Hey, Stefan!’ he boomed through cupped hands. ‘You ever in trouble you can’t handle, just come here and ask for Scud Murphy!’
‘OK,’ Stefan called back. For the life of him he couldn’t imagine what kind of trouble that would be, having to go to a biker for help. But he never forgot that biker’s name, the back of his jacket with FILTHY FEW on it; remembered every detail about him.
*
Stefan never told Uncle Luc about his encounter with Scud Murphy. Somehow he figured it wouldn’t go down well, since his uncle was so cultivated in his tastes. But he felt good about it within himself; the experience seemed to activate some small but important part of him that he hadn’t known about. It lifted his life out of the humdrum, if just for a short time, and showed him possibilities. Life could be exciting, maybe even a bit dangerous.
In the following months, after his thirteenth birthday, Stefan developed the habit of helping himself to Luc’s liquor tray and cigarettes every day after school. Using the same small, cut-crystal glass each time, he’d pour himself two, maybe three shots of Cointreau or Chartreuse, drink a can of beer from the fridge, puff away on pilfered smokes. As he became intoxicated he grew emboldened enough to rummage through Luc’s bedroom drawers, seeing his private stuff such as the condoms, dirty movies and magazines and other mysterious things in jars and tubes, which he examined, removing the tops and sniffing their contents before putting everything back.
Since Luc returned from work at six fifteen each day like clockwork, Stefan knew he had time to do these things and cover his tracks afterwards. Unable to resist, he sat down with a beer and watched another gay video, not the one he’d already seen, and found it even more offensive, if that were possible. One of these characters wore a leather metal-studded harness around his chest and a belt-like contraption around his waist with a hole in the front, where his giant dick stuck out. They also used masks of the same studded leather, chains and other devices such as whips and clubs, like police batons. Stefan couldn’t believe what they did with those batons.
Weird and revolting, but all the same, watching it gave him an uncontrollable urge to masturbate. He unzipped and got to it.
It felt all right, but not much stuff came out. Hardly any, compared to what he saw in the movie. Hell, they were spraying it all over each other!
This time he remembered to replace the video in Luc’s drawer.
*
At school he shared his stolen cigarettes with classmates. He had a bit of a name by now—someone who was smart but edgy. Even at his tender age, sex never strayed far from his mind, so it seemed—he often had an erection in class for no apparent reason. He and a couple of his buddies started hanging out with some girls, the kind who didn’t mind playing around. There was a bit of touching up, but the girls wouldn’t undress or do anything much other than puff on cigarettes and talk dirty.
One time after school he took this particular girl, a skinny blonde with freckles and braces on her teeth, to a stormwater drain near a train station. He’d heard from his friends that this girl was stuck on him. There in the graffiti-plastered concrete tunnel they smoked and talked, and after a while things became more familiar. At his suggestion, with some persistence, she pulled down her pants and showed him her vagina. Stefan stared bug-eyed: he’d never seen one before. There wasn’t really a lot to see, apart from a meagre patch of pubic hair, but it gave him a kick all the same.
In no time Stefan had his dick out and they were fooling around with each other. But that was it, to Stefan’s great disappointment. She wouldn’t go any further. Not that he would’ve known what to do, but he was sure he’d be able to work it out, given the chance.
*
Uncle Luc got into the habit of bringing Stefan a drink in his usual glass each evening before they sat down to dinner. And while Luc was busy in the kitchen preparing the meal, Stefan would help himself to a second or third shot. When they sat down to eat, Luc would pour him a glass of wine.
‘To drink wine with meals is the height of civilisation,’ he announced, topping up Stefan’s glass as well as his own.
Stefan had a feeling Luc knew he was helping himself to the liquor tray on the sly, but for some reason chose to pretend otherwise. He would have seen the level in his bottles was going down too fast. And when the bottles were empty, he wasted no time replacing them.
He was watching TV on the sofa when Luc sat down beside him. That was unusual—he always sat in his La-Z-Boy. Stefan was watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind, although he was having tro
uble concentrating because his eyes kept closing. Soon he was drifting off, unable to resist any longer …
When his eyes opened again he noticed Luc’s hand was on his thigh. Just resting there, not doing anything.
Stefan found this mildly disturbing.
He got up to go to the bathroom, and when he returned Luc patted him on the thigh and allowed his hand to rest there again.
‘You’re a good boy, Stavvie,’ Luc told him. ‘I like having you here. Don’t get me wrong, but we get along fine, don’t we? We have fun together.’
Stefan nodded. He wished Luc would take his hand away. Sitting this close together, Stefan could smell the strong cologne that his uncle seemed to wash his face with.
After drinking too much wine and port one Saturday night he woke in the early hours to the sound of a party going on in the house. Luc had his usual band of friends around. Stefan recognised their different voices by now, although he had never seen them in the flesh. As he lay there he tried to put a face to each of the voices. They were laughing and telling stories as usual, with Billie Holiday singing one of her sad songs in the background. By now he’d concluded from their intonations and the general tenor of their conversations that Luc’s friends were all gay, so Luc had to be gay too. The more he listened, the more he wondered if these men did the things Stefan had seen in Luc’s videotapes.
Eventually he went to sleep again. In his foggy, alcoholic dream state it seemed that something was happening to him, something out of his control. He seemed to be falling into a bottomless chasm. The experience was alarming, but he was too groggy to do anything about it. His arms and legs were weighted down in a heavy slumber. He dreamt that a monster stood at the foot of his bed, but he was unable to move, or utter a sound.
In the morning, things didn’t feel right. It was Sunday, so he stayed in bed, knowing Luc would not get up until mid-afternoon.
